


Stolen Potential

by Andromeda221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3202598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andromeda221B/pseuds/Andromeda221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's stag night was ending cheerfully enough, until a silly thing called emotions broke its way to the surface</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stag Night

“Yeah, but am I a pretty lady?”

Sherlock and John had been drinking the entirety of John’s stag night, graduated cylinder after graduated cylinder downed. However, while the premise of a stag night was to let the husband-to-be experience all the joys of bachelorhood one more time before he was thrust into married life, it really had only succeeded thus far in getting the two of them giggly. After Sherlock had gotten them kicked out of a bar, they retreated back to the flat and started a game of “Forehead Detective” out of refusal to give up on the night. They weren’t completely boggled; just enough so they had an expanded sense of self.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock sighed defeatedly, pausing for a moment to blow a raven curl off his face, “I have absolutely no idea who you are.”

John groaned slightly and leaned in closer to stare at him.

“Well, I know what you are.” John said, pointing at him, “You're an idiot.”

“Is that what’s written on my head?” Sherlock asked, trying to look upwards at his own forehead.

“Yep, a complete idiot.” John laughed, shaking his head back and forth.

“Well, look who's talking.” Sherlock countered, cracking a smiled, “In a battle of wits, you’d be unarmed.”

With alcohol drowning his system and exaggerating what his sense of humor encompassed as hilarious, John began to shake with laughter at the uninspired insult.

Sherlock grinned widely and chuckled at the figure before him, watching as his eyes squeezed closed, certainly trying to diffuse the laughing fit that had overcome him.

Something overcame him suddenly, taking over his consciousness and invigorating him. It was a sense of... of pride? Sherlock didn't quite know what he was feeling, but it felt warm, unfamiliar, and left him with a need to divulge.

_I need to speak, I need to-_

"That might the most unoriginal thing I've ever heard you say, Sherlock!" John grinned, laughter still wheezing out between his teeth at odd intervals.

"Oh, yes, um." Sherlock stuttered, driving that odd urge out of his mind. "Most certainly."

John paid little attention to the change in Sherlock's demeanor, instead satisfied with continuing his fit.

 _He looks so happy._ Sherlock thought to himself. _Could it really be so wrong to....?_

“I love you.” Sherlock blurted out.

The laughter cut off abruptly as the words were spoken, scurrying from the room to seek solace from what was sure to come. Sherlock watched in horror as John’s face melted before him.

Downwards it went from giddiness.

Downwards to the dredges of confusion.

Downwards and ultimately to the finality of acceptance, pursed lips and exasperation set on his face.

“John.. " Sherlock began, eyes frantically searching John’s face, searching vainly for a response.

John closed his eyes and let his head fall onto the back of his chair, chin jutted up.

“You...you always do this.” John finally said, still facing the ceiling, “You always have to be dramatic. Always...”

“It wasn't my intent to....” Sherlock desperately tried to explain, “I was just overcome with, with...I don’t exactly know. It was unintentional, but all the while truthful. You must understand why I ask, but...do you feel the same?”

There was a brief pause while John contemplated this question, torture on Sherlock’s frayed nerves.

“Yes. I do. I've always.” John confessed, but his tone was in utter contrast to his words. They were spoken in hushed anger, holding back pain.

“Then what’s the problem?” Sherlock whispered.

The silence was deafening.

“The problem is that I’m getting married in 3 bloody days!” John shouted, whipping forward and ripping the remnant of their alcohol-induced game off his forehead before slamming it on the table, “There’s nothing to be done now! What were you expecting to accomplish?! Besides causing me a wholly amount of anguish. But that's all you do, I guess.”

“I-”

“This isn't a story!” John continued, voice rising with each word he spat, “You just drop the bomb that I’ve been waiting for and wanting to hear ever since I met you and expect me to say ‘Oh my god, Sherlock! I love you too! Let me just destroy the life I’ve created with the women who saved me from myself and run off with you!’ That isn’t how life works!”

Sherlock sat dumbfounded for John’s entire rant, his eyebrows pulled together and lips slightly parted into a broken mask of composure. The alcohol wasn’t working on his side.

“The fact of the matter is, I do love you.” John sighed, “I never loved anyone more. But you left me once. You left me once and that break in me never healed. Now, Mary helped me out of that very dark place I was in. I can’t leave her, Sherlock. Can’t you see? How could I be so cruel to someone who helped me so?”

“I helped you.” Sherlock breathed, not daring to look him in the eyes.

“You did. You helped me when I had no one else to turn to, when I had no one else in the world. But you never....” John trailed off, slight indignation returning to his voice as he began again, “You never said it. After all the **years** we’ve been together, you throw this at me now?”

“When was I supposed to say it, John?” Sherlock exclaimed, “I couldn’t risk a negative response that would jeopardize the only thing that mattered to me. I don’t know why I said it, but I can’t take it back and won’t.”

“What are we supposed to do now?” John asked, eyebrows knitted and eyes hard, digesting Sherlock’s words.

“I can’t fathom a course of action...” Sherlock said, apology in his voice, “Well, except..”

“Except what?” John inquired.

“Except forgetting this.” Sherlock finished, letting the silence pool around them.

The two considered this idea, what it entailed and how it might fare in the long run.

“I don’t think that would be possible, Sherlock.” John contested, but he was contradicting himself, of course. He knew that if he wanted to stay with Mary, he’d have to forget about this whole thing. But it was difficult. It felt wrong, but it was necessary for what he thought was the right thing.

“It’s really not that hard, forgetting about your feelings, drowning them out with the buzz of everyday nonsense. Distractions.” Sherlock persisted, a false expression of “okayness” plastered on his face, “Firsthand knowledge here.”

“But-”

“You’ll be happy with Mary.” Sherlock continued, painting out a cheerful picture of marital bliss for him, “Trust me.”

John had been angry with Sherlock, but this, what he felt as Sherlock’s words echoed throughout him, was of a different kind. A pained anger, full of disbelief.

John just nodded, feeling hollow and drained, part alcohol and part dejection. He hadn’t wanted it to end like this, but he know that it really was the only way they could continue forward. He just couldn’t abandon Mary.

Sherlock stood and turned away from him, starting a slow, pained walk to his bedroom.

He paused, hand sliding down the door's wooden frame.

“Goodbye, John.”


	2. Forgetting

The day was young, and the blush colored skies seemed to mock Sherlock as he sneered at them from his bedroom window. He lied to himself as he dressed. He was annoyed. The emotion filling him was annoyance. He was just annoyed.

"A normal, boring day." he muttered at his reflection as he finished putting on his shirt, pulling his robe in a cold staring contest with his dead eyes.

Exiting the room, his fingers unconsciously grazed against the polished grain of the doorway as they had done just the other night.

Sherlock's gaze fell to the floor as those painful memories ebbed from their confines in his mind.

_Perhaps, if I had-_

"No! Shut up!" he commanded the nagging voice of regret in his head, walking forward as he battled his subconscious.

The damage was done, and Sherlock's emotions were conflictive. Although he in no way wished he hadn't confessed, the guilt still lingered. The only remorse for the night was hurting John. He should have seen that there was no way the conversation could have turned out any other way. Sherlock was so blinded by his own selfishness and the sting of alcohol that he couldn't guess at what John had so vehemently argued. That this was not a story, and by an extension, not everyone could have a happy ending.

"Well, John can." he muttered dejectedly to the empty flat. "At least he can."

Regardless of the conclusion that that statement should have brought, Sherlock's thoughts continued to buzz violently around and around again, stinging and burning. He brought his hand to his forehead, leaning with his back against the wall, letting the world fall in around him. Sherlock snapped his eyes shut, every worst memory seeming to resurface despite his immense attempts to bury them. His emotions seemed to twist into terrifying arrays of colors and images behind his eyelids as the terrible realization he had been trying to dismiss broke its way to his lips.

"I love him, and I can't forget."

Sherlock spoke these words in a hushed whisper of fear, pain echoing back to him in waves of winsome acceptance.

He slid down the wall as traitorous tear escaped him, reminding him he wasn't strong enough. He couldn't forget, not willingly. He could pretend, but it would always fester inside of him.

Sherlock opened his eyes again, heavy with the weight of his grief.

He couldn't willingly forget, but he had to, somehow.

Lifting himself from the floor, he brought himself to the kitchen and reached into a hidden spot behind the cupboard for what he knew could make him forget.

What had worked so many times before, and what he needed now more than ever.


End file.
